Origins
by skiaholic
Summary: Warwick was never always the demonic canine he is now, but once a normal man named Christopher. But how did he become what he is today?
1. Chapter 1

Warwick Lore

It truly was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, etched by clouds so high in the Jetstream it reminded Christopher of chalk traces streaking away in the rain. The sun had just set behind the high horizon of the Ironspike hills, rendering the valley Christopher sat in to the conspiracy of the shadows. But he didn't mind. In fact, he favored hunting in these twilight hours. The setting sky was still emanating enough light to be confused with the light of day. But this kind of light accentuated the features of the landscape: unique lumps and protruding bumps of varying minerals on the boulder field he hid in, the crisp and altering colors of the lichens that decorated the rock, just the rich saturation of color was enough to set the mind on a tangent. Christopher liked this place. In fact, he'd pictured himself living here eventually, deer plentiful enough to feed a family and a creek where you could poach the occasional trout. Christopher loved fish. Maybe even at the right time of year he'd travel further down the valley, where the creek broadened to a river. Salmon were bound to migrate up to spawn, and he could catch his fair share of salmon for the year. He saw it now, a house, no, a hut, resembling more of a yurt right down the-.

_Scrak scrak_

The daydream was crudely crushed as instantaneously Christopher snapped into his instinctive predatorial behavior. His nose siphoned the air, but the nonexistent wind left nothing but the smell of his lunch on his breath. He peeked out of the slit two boulders created on the valley hillside to peer at the cave he'd been camping out. He was hunting.

A week prior three Demacian fugitives had escaped from a Zaunite prison, jailed on terms of secrecy and treason. A statewide declaration of emergency had been instated until the return of these three captives had been secured. Their status: Unarmed. Very Dangerous. Manipulative. Holds privileged Information. Christopher remembered seeing the "Wanted" posters before hearing of it in the news. Their biographical sketches littered the streets. A dozen different Zaunite government sectors and corporations had priced a pretty penny for their return. Christopher isn't one to engage on these wild goose chases though. Petty work he thought, something for the likes of Sivir who lends a blade for a mere copper piece. No, Christopher wasn't involved until he received a personal visit from the president of Zaun in person. The President's frantic state of emergency was clear, and he was the man for the job.

Christopher didn't mind. Nor was it the first time he received such personal visits. It was his pleasure to serve the state, and he commonly indulged in these manhunts. He was a specialist, the best at hunting, and he hunted the most dangerous game of all. So damn good was he that people traveled far and wide for his services. His superhuman senses were almost mythic, and his reputation unparalleled. If someone needed to be procured, Christopher was the man for the job.

He had suspected they've taken refuge over these last few days in this cave to avoid the weather. The Ironspike Mountains were notorious for denying fugitives escape from the withholds of Zaun. The unstable weather synergized with the shear granite faces, snow capped peaks, and growing ravines that could offer disaster if individuals aren't smart or careful about the paths they walk. It takes a safe and conscious traveler a week to traverse the few miles the mountains span. But if delusional and disturbed like many a convict are; the mountains lead to a dead end with the promise of death.

Christopher had a sixth sense for fear, and he felt a source of it emanating from the cave before him. There was a disturbance in the air, like an injured bird shot out of the sky and left writhing on the ground alone, scared, and out of its element. A disturbance like this that attracted every predator from miles around, and Christopher was starving for blood.

But he knew better. They knew better. To have him walk into the cave by himself is a likely 3v1 scenario, with him out of his element. Christopher was sure he could handle anyone of them with his left hand on a bad day, but he wasn't the one to take chances either.

He layed his tools before him without ever drifting an eye from the rock. His tools: knives, blades, and tranquilizing dopes for his means of work. He tucked his blessed shuriken into a leather strap on his forearm, easily accessible in case of a quick throw. It was given to him in reward by an Ionian monk when he returned an adept back to the island from a Noxian prison. He was told the shuriken never misses the heart as long as the eyes lead the path to it. And he's never missed since. A blade is strapped to his left thigh. He picked it off of a rampant spectre from an assignment in the shadow isles. It was his weapon of choice, told to him by Ezreal that it contains the strength of every soul slain by it. And every assignment he tends to favor it more and more. On his right thigh though contains his most vital tools. Chemicals, pills and darts brewed by the famed Zaunite chemist Singed himself. Some for setting his prey to sleep, some for temporary paralysis, some chemicals guarantee a painless death in a matter of seconds. It doesn't matter to Christopher though; in his mind they all did the same job of rendering his prey immobile.

So he sat, and waited. And waited. The sun has left Zaun in favor of another part of Valoran, but Zaun never slept. As the black of night shrouded over the valley, a white world emerged as Christopher felt the cold wet beginning of snowfall accumulate on himself. All the better for him. Snow made for easy tracking, and the cold must have them skitterish and desperate for escape now. So he waited some more.

Christopher watching petrified over the cave reminded him of a tactic he read about of hunters in Freljord. A polar bear while hunting for seals will sit at a breathing hole unwavering for hours. Maybe even an entire day, for the chance to swipe at a seal. Sometimes a seal never shows up at that hole, but when it does, opportunity only shines for a second. Well Chrisopher was just beginning to feel that feeling of doubt. "Were my senses wrong this time? Maybe they escaped while I was daydreaming?" He tensed at the morbid thought of failure, the blow his reputation would receive if he returned to Zaun empty handed. But before the thoughts of doubt could make the best of his mind, his ears revitalized his hope as his eyes seeked to assure his mind.

_Fcchht fcchht_ – The sound of scraping rubber boots on the eroded granite outcrop that composed of the cave was heard. Why Christopher still sat peering through the rocks he did not know. The Valley was a dark world right now, but his sense of smell and hearing were just as acute, if not better, than his sight. Additionally he has always had an uncanny sense for his surroundings, which contribute to his noiseless stalking and efficient chasing ability.

Christopher circumnavigated around the cave, giving him the opportunity of the highland as he paralleled his victims path. The fugitives were obviously untrained in the art of stalking and traveling; they were making such a racket that even the ground squirrels skimpered away from the source of disruption. He heard them stumble and curse their misfortune, curse the damned weather, and cursed the seemingly impenetrable mountains that separated them from their destination. Each mistake they made, stubbed toe or slip on the icy rock vitalized Christophers anticipation and desperation for blood, preparing him for the feast to come. Cristopher stalked to a point he was so close that he couldve seen the pupils of theirs eyes if it were light, see the perspiration of work and fear dribble down their faces, a leaps away which is more than he needs with the extension of his knife.

Christopher's breath resonated deep and slow in spite of his racing heart rate. Too easy he thought. Two blind victims, delusional and beside themselves in the cold. There was a new feeling in the back of his mind, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. In fact, last time he felt it was on one of his very first assignments. An interesting man long ago appeared at his door. He heard of Cristophers talents way down in the Shurima desert, and had a project he said would, "Define the future of Valoran." As young and aspiring as he was, ready to make a name for himself he couldn't say no. And when he was told the assignment, he almost laughed and closed the door in the man's face.

He wanted him to kill a child. No travel, no stalking, no fighting. In Zaun itself the man said, "is a child destined to crush life in Valoran." So Cristopher followed orders, for he paid in advance a fee generous to even the most difficult of projects. Cristopher broke into the suburban house he was told to, upstairs, second room on the left where he found himself peering over a cradle. A baby slept in it: ignorant of the cruelties of the world, ignorant of the cruelties of man, how could this baby become something so cruel? It was then that Cristopher felt the twinge he feels now. His breath felt icy cold, kind of as it feels now in the snowy night. But the ice didn't come from the snow, it came from his heart.

He tucked the motionless baby back into its sheets. The neurotoxins should kick-in in a matter of seconds.

Returning home, the man who gave him the project was waiting for him at the door, his eyes were tracing a clock in his hands that had six arms, all spinning at different speeds.

"Your late, but ooo- I knew you'd follow through. Valoran thanks you."

Christopher said nothing, took his profits, and shared his night with the bottle.

But now here he is with a similar feeling for such pathetic creatures now, comparable to a defenseless baby. But he's killed like this once, and he will do it twice. Do it thrice if need be. It's his job.

He vaulted from the rock he was crouched on. His twisted blade melted through the first victims throat in a single swift and soundless movement that left his opponent leaking red in his lap. Before the second man realizes the events occurring in the dark, Cristopher drives his hand hilt deep through the back of the second man, enjoying the warm feeling of blood ooze through his fingers. His heart races, he prances around his slain foe's like a deranged drunkard. He used to not enjoy killing but over the years it became an integral part of his life. It's his drug that keeps him motivated, always wanting another dose of blood.

After the euphoria of battle dies down a little, Cristopher sits to think of his project. Only two bodies laid before him, yet he was told of three fugitives escaping Zaun. Only two tracks lead up to this place? He gets down on his hands and knees and smells each body, then stands on a nearby rock filtering the air with his nose to see if there is a change.

They are alone.

Cristopher breaks into a jog retracing the route of the escaping fugitives to the cave. He was sure there were three of them before, and had the one deviated from the other two then his trail could still be hot with his scent. But the tracks of the two remained together all the way from the origination of the cave. But standing outside the cave now he could feel the sense of fear even stronger than when he staked it out before. It was almost overwhelming, and it made Cristopher smile.

He began his way into the cave. Indifferent in atmosphere really, it's just as dark in as it is outside, so he felt no discomfort. There was one man left. Cristopher heard the chatter of his teeth before he even saw where he sat. A bright light suddenly flashed and partially illuminated the room, but lit up the man face. He held a match close to him, as if the light would protect him from evils of the dark. Cristopher walked over to him. The man held his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs so his fingers intertwined with his toes. Cristopher knelt down in front of him so the man could see his face, it wasn't every job that he got this personal with his victims. He wanted to feel how they felt, what was it like knowing your imminent death?

"Hello" Christopher said trying to be as cheery as he could. He even sported a rare smile that revealed his polished and pronunciated teeth.

" H-He-He-Hellolololooooo….." The man many said through a shivering constipation.

"My name's Christopher! Do you know why I am here?"

The man nodded.

"Whats your name then?"

"W-W-Wa-Warwick…." The man said in two simple syllables.

"Warwick.." Christopher played with the name in his mouth. He liked that name. It meant a lot of things, an impressionable name people won't forget. "I like you Warwick. I even brought a surprise that may make you feel a little better!" He reached into his right pocket and cradled a handful of pills before him. All of different colors, different substances, different reactions and different purposes. But one of them was a peppermint.

"Unfortunately, I need to save some of these for your friends who are waiting outside. Very nice people by the way! But I'll let you choose one for now"

The man eyes bulged and he shook his head in refusal but Cristopher was insistent. So he took one, the smallest one, and popped it into his mouth.

"Now now, that wasn't so bad was it?" But just as his sentence finished the man's eyes rolled unfocused as his shoulders slouched in posture. The emanating presence of fear was distinguished from the room.

"Warwick…." Cristopher played with the name some more.


	2. Chapter 2

WW Lore 2

Christopher's eyes snapped open in a wince as his sleep was disturbed by the putrid smell that permeated through the canvas walls of the carriage he rode in. One always smelled Zaun before they saw it. Well, actually, one never really saw Zaun at all from a distance. The city was wrapped in an eternal shroud of smog which reflected the character of the self-centered and careless city so well.

After the completion of the three problems, Christopher went due east to hitchhike a ride along the Zaun-Noxus trail. He could've easily hiked his own way back to Zaun, similar to the way he came, but Christopher needed a rest. And he founded that rest in the back of a barley convoy, a comfortable sitting space wedged between two crates, traveling between the two cities.

Christopher was tired. He couldn't remember the last time he wasn't on a problem. He was exhausted, overworked, and addicted. He couldn't stop hunting and he knew it. Give him a few hours of sleep and he'll wake up possessed with the latest problem, unable to resume his life until he knew another life had been taken.

Voices rang out around him as he felt the carriage slow to a creaky halt. Christopher silently slid through the back flaps of the wagon and rolled silently into the bordering bushes. The convoy had stopped at an inspection gate, probably to tax the imported goods. The gate was only about a mile from the city so he decided to walk the rest of the way, distract his mind from work before he finished this problem and became hooked to the next.

Gazing at the approaching city he thought of how well the city reflected his character. Hundreds of smokestacks belching the black smoke that conjoined with the fog reminded him of his own restless nature. Some buildings reached so high that your neck ached trying trying to see the top floor, while neighboring structures stand half built and gutted, skeletons of corporations never developed due to the competitive nature and cut-throat tactics of Zaunian business. Christopher cuts throats, he was the best in the business. And before he knew it he stood before the Zaun Institute of Science and Industrial Production. Zaun's pride and glory. It was where Chrisopher worked, and his work the center of his life. The massive structure placed in the middle of the city nearly expanded a cubic mile was shaped much like an X where each wing housed the different fields of research. The building was alive and bustling with young minds in the constant state of panic to withhold their competitive class position. Then the equally competitive old minds competed to receive the crooked wealth of the state to compensate for their levels of endowments they give from their own research. Christopher was an old mind.

Christopher meandered through the massive building, each hallway he passed through narrowed him into more and more specified fields of research. At first he turned into the massive "Sciences" hallway, a main artery of transport through this portion of the building yet still remained close quarters with other busy students. A left under the "Chemistry" sign brought him into another hallway of busy students. He then navigated his way through the hallways from their signs: "Research", "Warfare", "Political Relations", and finally a hallway labeled "Biological studies" where not a person was present in the substantially narrower hallway than himself. Christopher finally found himself in a room labeled 13850 with a few rune symbols only a Valoran chemist would understand.

Another man was in the room. As Christopher walked in the man spun around from a stool, green goggles covered his eyes and white bandages covered the lower part of his face due to an experiment gone wrong in his earlier collegiate years.

"You're later than I expected. Do you have the specimens?" The bandaged man said anxiously.

Christopher responded by throwing his pack on the table. Three severed heads rolled out of the pack.

"They were supposed to be alive." The bandaged man replied.

"Does it look like I fucking care? The state is paying more for their retrieval than you for your petty experiments."

"And what of the blood samples?"

Christopher took three vials of blood from his left pocket and handed them to the chemist. After glancing at each one under a microscope for a few seconds he responded, "Useless. All useless. These specimens are all over twelve hours old. I need fresh samples." The chemist sighed resting his face in his palms. Christopher felt a twinge of remorse for his harsh intrusion. He knew the kind of stress the chemist was placed under for his research to be complete, and also knew he played a crucial part in his success by bringing back test worthy specimens.

"Hey Singed" Christopher said softening his voice a little, "I can have you three fresh samples by tomorrow morning. Why don't you call it a night?"

"Do you think you can do that? Oh, and please Christopher, you need not to kill the subject to obtain a sample."

Christopher thought about the idea, but wrapping his head around not killing arose so many hindering implications that could throw everything off. "I'll see what I can do" was his parting words as he walked upstairs to his residence in the institution.

Christopher couldn't help but to crack a smile, a rare laugh to himself at the absurdity of the words he had just heard. Singed was strange. Here he was asking to not kill subjects for blood samples for a chemical weapon meant to kill thousands. Ignorance, he thought. You see the men you collect, know them by their own DNA, but the personal relation to those who receive the product of our genocidal weapon is nonexistent. Thus giving a mentality of innocence. A classic Zaunian mindset.

Christopher found a sheet of paper at the top of the stairs he ascended, stapled to his door. At least twenty names of victims needing to be procured filled the sheet, along with the associates wanting the subjects and prices they're willing to pay. Literally a week's worth of work accumulated over his last problem. He read the paper as strolled through his apartment. The most appealing problem was the request of the assassination of a company CEO by a rival business. A few personal problems from individuals scattered the list, but they usually had a low pay-out. Live yordle test subjects were asked from different departments of the institute, but everyone knows that yordles are few and far apart in Zaun. He poured himself a glass from a bottle labeled "Noxian Whisper" as he crumpled the paper and tossed it to the corner. The soothing burn had an effect to quench his addiction for the fresh lives he will be overlooking.

He sat on his bed as he felt the warming affects of the alcohol. A few deep breaths to calm his hyperactive senses, but he knew in a matter of hours there was no stopping his addiction for more blood. Plus those were petty assignments, and Christopher had his word to keep with Singed.

Minutes after he took off his boots to rest, he found himself re-lacing them to his feet for a night on the town. As soon as he poured the contents of his bag onto the bed, he found himself repacking for the latest problems. Weapons, toxins and poisons, some food, and three heads were strewn across his sheets. He would not be needing the three heads tonight, and needed the room for possibly three more heads, so he lined the three by the wall next to his door, to remind him to preserve them when he returns.

Christopher promised Singed three alive and well projects to work on, so he stored away the weapons that would tempt him to kill: The haunted blade that gave him a surge of confidence when he wielded it, the blessed shuriken, and all the glass pills that contained lethal quantities of poison. In addition he packed several meters of rope for binding victims, and strips of leather for the more unwieldy ones.

Lastly before he ventured out, Christopher went to his bathroom to clean up, so as to not scare away his victims before he even got a chance to introduce himself. In the sink he cleared the surmountable amount of dirt that had built around the crevices of his face to reveal a surprisingly smooth layer of skin. He ran a comb through the wavy black hair that would overflow his eyes if he didn't flip it across his forehead. And finally applied some cologne to mask the wreak of several days in the field and the pungent stench of years working in the laboratory had embedded in his clothes. The cologne burned his nose and handicapped his sense of smell, but he would not be needing that in this kind of hunt.

As he left down the steps, he took a final swig of "Noxian Whisper".

"I'm out for the night" Christopher announced as he strolled into the laboratory, "Try and cl—" Singed was passed out on a table where he was last seen observing blood samples under a microscope.

"Ratty old boy" Christopher commented as he felt the even chestfalls of his lab assistant. "The man needs a break. But then again, don't we all."

Then he was off into the night.

The hot Zaunian night pressured any of those who dared to travel its streets after sundown. The accumulated byproduct gases from Zaunian industry created a tremendous Greenhouse effect within the city. Surely temperatures may be normal outside, but the city was mercilessly beaten by heat. But the thought of changing the standards of industry, or even invoking a standard of industry was ridiculed by any who attempted it. Alternatively, many entrepreneurs saw the heat as a source of business, and extensive air-cooling and luxurial treatments had been instated around the city. Vented sidewalks exist over massive liquid compressors that eject a cool air into the city. Some aquaductorial projects bring the cold water from the ocean into the hot city in a constant ventilation. Some people have even unsuccessfully tried tugboats of ice sheets off of Freljord to float through the city, but too much mass was lost in these icebergs over the long distance. The downside is that the city is only willing to pay for such luxuries during the day, leaving the night capable of squashing any of those stupid enough to attempt it.

The heat wasn't unbearable, just uncomfortable. But additive to the coat Christopher must wear to conceal his weapons had him soaked in a matter of minutes. Because of the heat, people avoided the outdoors as much as possible yet still a handful of street dwellers existed. Christopher found that it wasn't always best to take from those walking the streets. Those who are attentive and have a purpose in their walk will commonly be the most aggressive and willing to put up a fight. Better to roam the alleys.

Thirty minutes into the night he found his first victim. A man slept in an alley wedged between two dumpsters. When Christopher dragged him out of his sleeping space he raved in a delirium; his skin a sickly yellow and he housed no teeth. Taking a look at his bloodshot eyes, Christopher abandoned the idea of taking him in for fear of a foreign disease obstructing their lab data. Luckily, thirty minutes after that he came by another man. This one sat with his back to a wall outside a drug store. He talked in his sleep, ratcheting his head from side to side as if he were in a debate with himself. Christopher thinking he had another dead-end victim was revitalized when he saw the empty bottle in his left hand. Two quick glances down both ends of the street assured him no one was witnessing the situation. A following blow across the temple had the man out cold.

It took Christopher another half hour to have him bound and dragged through the back alleys to his lab at the institute. He was exhausted. He was thirsty. He thought that he had himself over his head to try incapacitate two more problems by the early hour the institute awoke. But Christopher had never came short of his word, and wasn't going to start now.

It was nearly two in the morning when he found himself back on the streets – the dead, quiet, still streets. This time though, he thought of a more civil method of collecting bottom-of-the-bucket samples of humanity at an hour like so. Minutes later he was standing outside of a rickety wooden building with nearly every window shattered, but blaring music and light that leaked into the desolate streets. A sign posted above the store read "The Huntsman".

Christopher walked in, head down and sullen yet still sizing up the dozen people who all sat scattered and intoxicated about the room.

"I'll take a pint." He said as the barkeeper approached. And a pint he received of the dankest drink he's ever tasted.

"I haven't seen you around here hun. I always know people around here, know just about every person in the room but you. But you ain't a regular, so why don't we get to know eachother? My name's Emily." Said a woman as she sat at the stool beside Christopher with a half-filled glass. Christopher had already sized her up before he even entered the room. A middle aged, short and stout woman. Closer up he could smell the wreak of alcohol on her over every other smell in the room. He could see the amounting sweat beading on her arms and her dampened shirt signaling that she's been here for a few hours. The hand she used to hold the glass only had four fingers; most likely a result from an industrial accident which wasn't uncommon in Zaun. And from what fingers she did have, he could see the dense layers of dirt blackening the tips of every fingernail. A laborer he deemed, and an expendable grunt at that. The perfect victim for a project.

"Oh, hey." Christopher was taken back, showing one of his rare but shy smiles as he stared intently into his beer, "Yeah I don't really come around here often, I've just been going through some troubles that I'm trying to sort out."

"Oh really?" She was hooked, this was too easy. After a short twenty minutes of exchanging childhood stories and Christopher crafting up a front that he had been laid off work and recently broken up with his girlfriend, Emily was already asking about where he lived.

"Just two blocks down, across Elmer street!" He said pointing with his finger in a random direction behind him.

"Well then, why don't we get out of this dump?" Christopher followed the woman out the door, but before she could even make it a block, had her in an alleyway flat on her back with a tranquilizing dope sticking out of her thigh. Another body he painstakingly dragged back to the institute.

Back at the institute, Christopher had the bodies ready for operation, lashed to operating table and body boards. Two bodies he thought, not exactly three but still workable material. As he tried to set up IV's that would supply effective amounts of sedatives as well as a consumption intake, he missed the project's veins multiple times due to his hand shaking so badly.

"I need them…." Christopher mumbled to himself, trying to overcome the need to kill to be satisfied. "If I could just feel their blood…" He thought to himself. But if he were to tempt himself with a little blood, that may very well set him off in a frenzy and leave him with two unviable patients.

He had to stop. He had been pushing 72 hours of work now, sleepless and fueled by nothing but bloodlust. Sleep he thought, sleep could dampen these barbaric feelings. He stumbled across the laboratory, steadying his legs by resting on the occasional table. Thumping upstairs fueled by ragged breaths and an undying determination, Christopher fell through his door in a deliria, hearing the voices of those who he has killed in the past.

"Oh, how you understand how we feel now hehehe…" A voice whispered behind him that trailed off in a mad cackle. Christopher lashed behind him willing to rip off the head of anyone who opposes him, but met nothing but air.

"I have to get it." Christopher thought to himself remembering his emergency therapeutical stores of blood he had in the cupboard under his sink. Luckily he was only a stumble away; his fist smashing through the balsa door of the cupboard was unconsidered in his search for relief. He felt blindly in the dark for his bottle, and eventually his bony knuckles gripped the cool cylindrical bottle he's recently become familiar with. He ripped off the stopper of the bottle as the cap slipped between his uncontrolled fingers, but controlled enough to guide the bottle to his mouth as he downed its contents.

The voices began to slip away with the delusions.

"I'll see you next time." A woman whispered in his ear with a seductive giggle. But this time Christopher didn't care to see if he had a visitor or not, but closed his eyes as he felt the calm of his heart.

He spent a good twenty minutes resting on the floor, only accompanied by his bottle of "Noxian Whisper" to keep him company. Yet the drink did a good deal to keep the whispers away.

After that he began to laugh at himself for the absurdity of the situation. "Who am I turning to be, the crimson reaper?" He thought to himself recalling the stories of a man named Vladimir he read about as a child. But of course he was no hemomancer, because his eyes weren't red.

Christopher got to his feet, hearing the compressors begin to roar outside his residence's window told him that morning was starting, and a glance at a clock reassured him it was 6 am. Christopher surprisingly wasn't tired at all despite his last night, and the night before, and the night before. So he strode downstairs to see how the lab's creations were brewing.

Singed still laid unconscious on a lab table with an arm cradling a microscope. Christopher strolled over to look through the microscope's lens, and saw his developing experiment.

"Well done mi boy." He said under his breath clicking between multiple tests. What he repeatedly saw was the makings of an auto-immune replicate. It was a cell that had the genetics of a white blood cell, communicated like a white blood cell, yet didn't fulfill the function of a white blood cell. What it would do is latch to problematic areas in the system, and when the organism's actual immune white blood cells enter the area, the system will already be saturated with the phony cells which really do nothing. It was ingenious. Christopher devised the biological weapon but he passed off the reigns to his aspiring partner Singed as he delved into his truer areas of expertise – hunting.

A sudden knock at the door realigned his senses, and woke Singed in a snorting contortion.

"Wha– Wha—" He stuttered, darting furtive glances across the room through blurry sleep induced eyes.

"No worry's boy, just someone at the door" but as Christopher was walking to the door the guest decided to introduce themselves.

"I am in need of a man who's far-spread rumors live as true as the rising sun" Was the introductory statement of the man that assaulted the door accompanied by two armed guards. Both Singed and Christopher knew full well who the man was. Only one man in Zaun dresses in such lavish pimp wear, purple overalls hidden behind the light blue suit coat. A gold chain dangled on his chest, the chain sometimes getting caught in the tufts of chesthair protruding between buttons. Maybe it was the lavish hair that gave it away, or the romp cigar that he was never seen without, but mostly his man-at-large behavior was what gave him such an authoritative aura.

"Chairman Dunderson. What a pleaseant surprise" Christopher first said approaching the man with an open hand gesture. "Those three men you ordered me to procure, well in fact I have them here, upstairs in my living area."

"Three men? I ordered you to kill thre- Oh yes, I remember very well now. The three demacian bastards who were selling inside secrets. My god man, I couldn't have of ordered that yesterday, you've made short work! This is why I pay the best!" His sentence was said as he reached into a pocket of his suit coat to procure three wads of bills with gold and silver coins hidden between the sheets of paper

Christopher greeted the pay with hungry hands, "Anytime sir, anytime."

"Well I'm sure glad I came because right now is damn well time! As I understand we also have an agreement for a weapon of sorts. A biology weapon I believe it is called?" Said Magnus Dunderson with an expression asking for an answer towards Christopher. But Christopher knew the state of the weapon they were working on, and diverted the gaze to Singed.

"Yes, yes, we are entering the final stages of synthesis." Said Singed rubbing his goggles. "Maybe a week, two at Maximum."

"Not two weeks, it's going to be done when the Noxus says it's done and needs it. And I can guarantee you boy, they are going to need it much sooner than two weeks time."

Singed gazed back, his expression impossible to read behind his goggles and bandaged face but Christopher could sense the beginning prickle of fear take place in him.

"And to you boy" Dunderson began directed at Christopher again. "The Noxus is paying for a job, and a difficult one at that." He stood there for a few seconds waiting for Christopher's willing response.

"Oh why, of course I'll do it" Christopher replied.

"Good, not like you had much of a choice either." Dunderson said in a matter-of-factly tone. "I hope you like money."


	3. Chapter 3

To say Christopher hated flying would be comparable to a father's way of describing how babies are born to a toddler, watered down and blatantly untruthful. Honestly, Christopher downright despised the thought of thin air separating a mile high fall between him and the barren earth. Men were not made to fly. If god intended for us to enjoy these unexpected turbulences and frozen gusts through moisture condensed clouds, he would have of crafted us wings and hollow bones. But we don't, meaning we should prosper our future on land. But according to the Zaunian government, this was the only way for such a mission to proceed, and Christopher didn't have much of a choice in protest. So he sought to distract his mind from this white knuckle ride.

"This flight has been made a million times before, and will be made a million times again." He thought to himself. "There is no reason why this flight would fail and send us all plummeting to our deaths in heaps of wood, metal, flesh, and…." A dead end train of thought, but whatever he tried to alleviate his mind to he would always come to a similar conclusion.

"This flight has been made a million times before, and will be made a million times again. Normal people make this flight. Important people make this flight. I'm important. They wouldn't let me die in something as meaningless as flight failure. Or would they? They need me. Or am I replaceable? If I were to die here, they could just as easily give the same job to Sivir for probably a cost much less." He ripped off a small tuft of hair from the top of his head to punish his brain, his truly own enemy. Let's try again.

"This flight has been made a million times before, and will be made a million times again. Wait a second? If its been made a million times before, wouldn't you say we were overdue for an accident? No flight agencies history is 100%, especially for a Zaunian agency." There he goes again, setting his nerves on edge by scenarios crafted by his own head. But it made him think finally of an idea without an association to aeronautical catastrophe – fear.

His increased heart beat, persistent perspiration, and heightened senses of his already superhuman senses gave him a foreign perspective. He noticed that he registered his surroundings almost at a rate of double what he usually would, and processed the information with a keener sense of understanding and perception than a normal man would. As his eyes darted around the carryhold of the zeppelin he was riding in, his eyes picked up on the misting of the viewing windows one could see outside from. "Condensation" He thought in a fraction of a second. "Higher vapor pressures at lower altitudes hold higher concentration of vapor within our artificial biome which is depleted in a condensation with contact of a cold surface omitting lower enthalpies of heat that equilibrates upon contact." Scientific observations, curious observations, theoretical and philosophical observations, dozens made over a minute, over the course of an hour is enough information to drive a man crazy. And a particular observation Christopher made from his train of unwavering thought was of fear using himself as an observation. The more and more he sat there thinking of his demise, the stronger his fear grew and conversely, the stronger his aptitude for observation grew. Fear was a state of mind that amassed over time.

He thought back to the last man he killed. Warwick was his name. How Christopher could feel the fear emanate from the cave which by itself is impressive enough. But before that, how he let that fear progress and progress as he waited all night for the other two men to escape, than how that fear even further progressed as he took time to retrace his steps back to the cave. He tortured the man without a presence. And such was the power of fear.

Christopher's ears popped as he felt his stomach drop through his gut, yet people still strolled around the carryhold of the zeppelin as if nothing was out of order. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to kill. "Crew members prepare for descent. 20,000 feet, 11 miles until destination" the captains voice called over the loudspeaker. They weren't crashing, just landing.

Christopher finally mustered the strength to stand out of his corner he'd been hiding in with only the help of a barrel that he keeled over. His back was wet from the relentless fear, but that was the least of his worries right now. There were dozens of windows about the zeppelin and Christopher managed to make his way over to one. To his surprise they weren't over land anymore, but an overwhelming sea of water that had his stomach doubled over again. Water still had him out of his element, but it was an easy decision to be there rather than in the air any day.

He was mesmerized by the water; of course his trip to Ionia, the island nation, would have to include some sort of over-sea transport. But all of a sudden there was a shimmer in the air, a rocking of the aircraft, and shortly following, the illumination of hundreds and hundreds of black warships.

"Magic." A spell cast over the army to disguise their inbound conquest of ionia. Each ship casted a trail of black coal smoke powering the noxian war-machine that wrenched Christopher's nostrils, but brought a wry smile across his face. And of course, the zeppelin was bound for the center ship. A massive demonstration of steel and power: quadruple smoke stacks, triple layered decks holding arsenal to the most modern weapons, and a long black flag that boasted a beastly skull.

It only took a matter of an hour to descend to the ship where they landed on a pad towards the starboard-stern side of the ship. Everyone on the ship, including Christopher, emptied the ship and dissipated into the crowd of Noxian peons who were trying to move the aircraft to make room for the line of zeppelins waiting to deport their own cargo. At first Christopher was confused as of what to do next. But a boy whose clothes were saturated in dirt and a face coated in coal dust quickly asserted him by passing on a letter that was smudged by his grimy hands. Christopher nodded as the boy was quickly on his way elsewhere.

"1200 hours. Suite 3960. This letter is to serve as a right of passage. High General, Jericho Swain." Christopher read to himself. Checking the time to see that he only had 20 minutes to get to where he was supposed to be and not a clue as to where it was, Christopher got on his way. But the ship was actually very well laid out. Suite 3960 meant it was on the third deck of the ship in the 960'th suite – odd numbers on the left, even on the right. But the third deck alone was a maze of security credentials and regulation that burned his time. Two armed guards stood at every 20'th door or so, and he had to send the letter through an electronic signifier that incinerated the letter after opening the door to the correct suite. Inside was an assortment of people lounging around. Not the first Christopher sighed in relief, but not the last either by the half-dozen or so empty chairs.

Christopher took a seat towards the corner of the busy room. Servants bustled serving drinks and refreshments to the inhabitants of the room. But this room wasn't inhabited by your average Noxian soldiers, in fact, only a fraction of the people there seemed to be of Noxian descent. He instantly recognized the shifty-eyed, renowned battle-mistress Sivir who sat nearest to him. She calmly spun a glave in one hand as she slouched back in a chair, a servant stood beside her with an assortment of drinks that she had absolutely no desire in. When her eyes drifted over to Christopher, his eyes suddenly became fascinated by the circles he twirled with his thumbs. But when the presence of interest from Sivir had left him, he dared to examine the other in the room.

A man sat in the corner across the room from him. Even as he appeared to be sitting on a chair, Christopher noticed that he wasn't sitting at all but rather levitating ever so slightly over the cushy leather of the seat. He wore loose fitting robes only adorned by those in the Shurima desert, but these appeared to be adorned with magical runes that danced around one another. In his hands he was cradling something small, something magical, something blue. It grew and shrunk with the motions of his hands. It looked as if it were trying to expand and escape but he kept in under his control.

"He isn't…" Christopher thought to himself, "Summoning the void?" The blue object he had in his hands Christopher recognized as a portal to the void. His ears picked up a soft screeching coming from that direction but when it seemed as if it were coming alive, Malzahar clapped the portal dead in his hands then looked up and around the room as if nothing had happened.

"Stand aside spineless wretches!" A voice boomed from outside the door as a man stormed past the guards and into the room to establish an instantaneous dominance. He wore red armor. Or perhaps armor that was once gray or silver like anyone else's armor but was forever tarnished by the blood of those he has slain. He sat in a chair that groaned under his weight, set his double bladed battle axe by his side so his hand could snap twice to summon three servants instantly. He grabbed a glass one held and downed its fiery contents without a wince. He grabbed another glass from another servant but smashed the delicate glassware against the wall as he haphazardly tossed it over his shoulder. From the third servant he grabbed an entire bottle from a bucket of ice which he uncorked with his own teeth and began chugging from as if he were a man on the brink of death. Christopher just sipped from his own glass as he watched in amusement of the horror of those who sat around the soldier named Darius.

Shortly after when the room had reached an all-time quiet following the rambunctious entrance of Darius, a raven flew through the door and perched itself on a shelf near the center of attention of the room. Following that strolled in a man who not a single person in all of Valoran wouldn't recognize.

"Greetings," Said Swain smugly, the High General of Noxus as he made eye contact with every person in the room. Christopher could smell the beginnings of fear from half the people in the room, as well as a cold chill in himself as the slanted eyes of swain met his own.

"Victory awaits us ladies and gentlemen, but not without the essential help of our most treasured assets." Swain began out. "I'm sure you are all aware of why you are here today, but unaware of what is to be done. Well let me sort this out." Swain nodded towards a man in the doorway who nodded back, and signaled down the hallway which was followed by a sudden hustle of a dozen servants who hustled into the room. "We are on the war path ladies and gentleman, and you are all to eliminate our preliminary targets that will show the greatest presence of resistance!" Swain punctuated this by punching his fist into the palm of his other hand with a satisfying smack. While he was talking one of the servants who entered the room gave a leather bound folder to Christopher that was engraved with his own name in the cover. A similar booklet was given to every member in the romm. It was a hefty booklet in which he could see much time was invested into its craft and creation. Swain carried on.

"Each one of you will have a personalized assignment of an Ionian sympathizer or supporter in your pamphlets." On queue Christopher opened his packet to see a picture of a woman attached to the front page. She had long white hair, and wielded a golden staff in a stance which shot crescent shapes of energy at Noxian soldiers. In the following pictures in the packet included many of her in the infirmary, with arms raised and eyes closed it appeared that golden wisps of something rained down to heal the wounded.

"It is essential that each and every one of you eliminate your designated target efficiently and surreptitiously. All information and regulations of each assassination is personalized in the pamphlets you have just received. Each and every assignments completion is crucial prior to the invasion of Ionia. Do we have an understanding." Swain looked around the room which was pacified in either fear for anticipation, Christopher couldn't differentiate his own feelings. When not a doubt was raised in the room, Swain closed with a simple, "Good." Beatrice the raven hopped to his shoulder as he began his exit. When approaching the door he stopped for a second and turned, "If you haven't lost the ability to ask, you may not ask for relief." This time he lost his smug smile as his purple eyes emanated a sense of intensity. Then he left.

The soldier Darius was the first to react. The chair again groaned in relief as he stood up with his axe pitched under his arm. He turned and faced the crowd much like Swain had done a few seconds prior, but without the same fear-inducing effects. But instead of saying something he just spat on the ground and left. Christopher was next to leave the room.

Under a tab labeled "Current accommodations" in his booklet was a number. Suite 2200 with a few security numbers and passcodes. Christopher descended a floor to a much less guarded hallway and found his room 2200 where his passcodes allowed him access to a single-bed, single-bath, room. Everything appeared a bland gray or black, where obviously Noxians had little care of upholstery or decoration. But Christopher didn't mind.

He set his bags on the single bed which poofed with dust when he sat on it. He layed his tools out: blades, bindings, and bottles of toxins, then parked himself on a chair to delve into his recently acquired book. It contained all of his travel itinerary. Beyond the majority of the pages that gave every detail of Soraka, who his assignment was to kill, was the plan of attack. He was to depart with the other assassins at 2400 tonight at the Bow of the ship. Each assassin is to have their own carrier to Ionia where they all are to be departed where their target resides. Each and every assassin will have two days time to get to know the surroundings and lay of the land, as well as personally check their targets securities and track their daily routines. Each assassin is to make the kill at 2300 hours with a 30 minute window on either side of the attack. They are all to make the attack simultaneously because the death of one priority may arise an alert in all of the others.

There was a pill taped into the inside cover with instructions. But with closer examination, it wasn't a pill at all but a small metal tracker. The instructions read, "Our tracker will remain in your system for three days time. Swallow whole with 4 oz. of water the night it's given, and when mission has been succeeded escape to the ocean front. Our support carriers will pick you up after your mission has been completed." Signed, NIA, Noxian Intelligence Agency. Christopher swallowed the pill immediately.

In his own itinerary were directions to be dropped off on the Navori beaches, where he is then to make his way to the city of Ionia. His new name is David. If anyone is to ask him the reason of his visit it is to say that he looks for a healer to follow him back to Zaun to heal his Deathly-ill sister. The inn he is to stay at is called the "Biting Lotus". Then Christopher went back to reading more about Soraka, her magical strengths, her integrital weaknesses, and her vast history with the Ionian government. But before Christopher could truly devise a plan of attack, two knocks at the door distracted him from his reading, then the door opened before he could even accept them in.

Swain entered the room, this time followed by a woman well known for her painless assassinations, Katarina. The two entered wordlessly followed by servants who brought seats which they sat on. The seats appeared plush compared to Christopher's accommodations but he daren't complain about his comfort. As the servants left the room, Christopher caught two men waiting outside the door, standing guard to the most powerful man in Valoran who sat before Christopher alone.

They said nothing at first, Christopher's two guests just sat and gazed at the room. Katarina took a sudden interest in the blades on the bed where Swain expressed not an interest at all. But then he finally spoke.

"I understand you are working on a project beyond this mission I am about to send you on Christopher." Swain said, pouring himself a glass of Noxian Whisper from a bottle which a servant had left. "And how goes the timeline on that project?"

"My colleague Singed was on the brink of discovery just as I was leaving. Should even be finished by now." Christopher replied confidently.

"So tell me again," Swain began, "What exactly did I just purchase two THOUSAND tons of again?" He said with the cock of an eyebrow.

"Well you see, it's an auto-immune replicate which doesn't fulfill the role of an auto-immune cell. We all have these white blood cells which attack problematic areas within our bodies; say broken bones or twisted ankles, even fevers and illnesses. White blood cells are your bodies solution to bodily problems. What our cell's which we have just made do is be seen at the site of injury within the body, without actually healing the bodies symptom. Thus when the actual white blood cells of the body encounter the area, they will see that the area is saturated with help and pass over the area. In fact, the only function these cells can do is to reproduce to form new cells." Christopher got very excited in his explanation use hand gestures to replicate cells and how the cell itself doesn't kill its host, but just deny the host from any recovery. But Swain was no Scientist, just a battle tactician and he didn't seem to catch on.

"And what of a cure mi-boy. Has any cure to such a. . . disease. . . been discovered?"

"No no no!" Christopher said excitedly. "You see, when these cells die, they take an immediate absorbance of surrounding cells which makes the cell much too large to properly excrete safely. Then these enlarged cells will float throughout the body and ultimately pool in the brain, which will cause the host death by hemorrhaging!"

These words had even caught Katarinas attention even though Christopher was sure she hadn't understood a single word of his description either. But the confused Swain was the first to respond.

"Mi boy, let me tell you a story. A story of a woman you know very well. A story of Sivir. She was once all the fame and glory of Noxus, the Noxian Mistress who could rally any army to victory and duel any opponent without a scratch to her face, or reputation." Swain's eyes glossed over in remembrance of former glory days while Katarina sneered in disgust and took a seat. He carried on, "She could not lose, or so everyone thought. But it was me who discovered that she could not lose because she picked the battles that she wouldn't lose. She rode on her wave of reputation to execute tasks at a surmountable price of gold. I saw this flaw of hers, and I knew it was going to backfire someday so I thought I would. . . well as scientists would say, catalyze the reaction. So one day there was a skirmish along our Demacian border and I needed a force to defend our outer villages. I knew the attacking army was large, and we barely had an army of our own to match the mass of Demacian services. A 50-50 battle, it could've gone in our favor just as easily as theirs, but to seal the victory I sent Sivir as the leading commander. For no price, no gold, just a direct order, she was to defend the border with the advanced army I gave her. And do you know what she said mi boy?" Swain waited for a second for a response Christopher daren't interrupt. "Well I'll tell you what happened, she denied it cause she could've lost. A 50-50 toss up. So I sent her to be punished for denying orders. She sliced the throat of our jailsman at night and escaped to the Shurima desert where she is now known as the "Battle Mistress" rather than the "Noxian Battle Mistress." And she makes quite a profit doing so. But don't you see. I created her. I gave her the armies, handed her the victories that built such a reputation. But when I wanted it gone, she took what I gave her and ran, and utilized the reputation to build something which I never wanted. A Noxian trained mercenary – hell she's even killed dozens of Noxians for wealth and a fairness in reputation. But here's what I'm trying to say boy, don't make something that could go beyond your grasp because it certainly will backfire. Now I already have two thousand tons of this stuff of yours brewing up, and I want an anti-dote to it, and I want it soon. Any questions to my request?" Christopher was silent.

"Good." Both Swain and Katarina arose and went to the door as servants came to pick up the chairs they had been sitting on.

"General," Christopher spoke out as Swain was about to leave. "So who won the battle along the Demacian border?"

"Nobody did. I commanded the forces against king Jarvan and both armies were massacred. Land was neither lost nor seized. We established the institute of war out of the ruins of the town and formed a league of resolve such conflicts." Then he left without a word more.

Christopher sat back in his chair trying to encompass all that he had just heard. The story of Sivir, his own mission, the need for an anti-dote to a nearly impossible creation. For the second time today he felt his heightened senses accentuate through fear, but found comfort in sleep. At 2300 hours he woke up and packed his bags for the long journey ahead. He made his way into the misty night of the battleships deck, breathing in nothing but the expended coal of the Noxian war machines. He met up with all of the other mercenaries and assassins at the far end of the ship. And he was sent to shore with a one-armed peon to paddle the boat.


End file.
